Distress Call
by Kryptaria
Summary: Before Holmes and Watson, before 007 and Q, they were John and James: patriots, students, thrillseekers.


**December, 1995**

"It's bloody freezing," James complained, pulling the blankets higher up over his shoulders. John was propped up on his elbows, head turned just enough to look at James through half-lidded eyes. Firelight danced in their depths, turning deep blue to a heated gold.

"You said your mother was Swiss. Shouldn't you be used to the cold?" John teased.

Suddenly self-conscious of his mixed accent, James nudged at John's elbow to get him to lie back down. "I've been in England for ten years. My blood's thinned. Keep me warm," he urged, sliding a leg over John's, loving the feel of strong, compact muscles.

John was a dedicated rugby player while James loathed team sports. They'd met on the jogging trail at the start of term just a few months earlier, first exchanging nods that escalated to challenging grins over the next week, until they were locked in a daily race to go further and faster. By week's end, James had asked his informal new running partner out for a coffee after their run, and they'd discovered that they shared a passion not just for running but for marksmanship.

Their first date had been to the shooting club where James held a lifetime membership. Since then, they'd been inseparable except during classes. John was studying biomedicine. James was studying whatever caught his eye — this term, it was languages.

"'Let's holiday in the country,' you said. You picked the cabin," John reminded James, though he obligingly rolled over onto his back. "We could've stayed in the dorms with proper heating."

"And everyone constantly bothering us," James countered, inching closer to press his chest against John's side. He traced across John's ribs until he squirmed.

"Tickles,"John objected, burying his face against his arms. "I thought you wanted to sleep."

"I'm not tired anymore. Besides, It's New Year's Eve."

"It's five past midnight on the thirty-first. We've got a good sixteen hours before _normal_ people celebrate," John said, though James could hear him grinning.

James pressed John into the rugs they'd layered in front of the fireplace hours earlier, when the cabin's tiny space heater had died a smoky, rattling death. "If I wanted _normal,_" he purred into John's ear, "I'd still be in Geneva."

"You'd still be in Geneva if you hadn't got kicked out for stealing your professor's car. You're a bloody genius who's on his way to being a career felon."

With a soft laugh, James moved over John until their bodies were pressed together, legs intertwined. "If I was in Geneva, we couldn't shag all night until we were too tired to celebrate a _normal_ New Year's Eve."

John flexed his back, pressing his hips up against James' body. "You could convince me," he said, his voice gone low and intent. He lifted his head enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to James' throat.

"Could I?" James mused as his eyes fell closed. He parted his legs, straddling John's hips so that their bodies slotted perfectly together.

John's answer was a contented purr. "You get to do all the work. I'm feeling lazy." He grinned that wicked, challenging grin that James couldn't resist. "You feeling seductive tonight, Mr. Bond?"

"Always, Mr. Watson. Always."

* * *

**April 2009**

"Watson? Watson _koja?_ Watson?"

Lieutenant John Watson moved a hand to his SA80 before even opening his eyes. He pushed up on his elbow, back protesting the movement. After five years in the field, he had no idea which was worse: sleeping on a hard tile floor, sleeping in body armour, or both. He'd opted for both this time only because they'd be moving out as soon as the meeting was done.

The speaker appeared in the open doorway, a little wraith of a boy, all gangly limbs and loose clothes. "Watson _koja?_" he called into the room, grin white against sun-dark skin.

"Watson. Yeah," John said, sitting fully upright as he tapped his chest. The other men sheltering in the room were also sitting up, wary and alert.

The boy navigated the outstretched limbs and equipment, very carefully avoiding going anywhere near the weapons that soldiers were now pulling close. They'd been offered shelter from the brutal thunderstorm while their senior officers discussed God-knew-what with the local elders. Their safety was guaranteed, but only as much as anything was ever 'safe' or 'guaranteed' in this part of the world.

Slowly, the boy extended a hand. His nails were clean, his skin free of scars and calluses. His clothes were clean, his teeth all intact. Probably the son of one of the elders. Interesting.

Then the boy uncurled his fingers, revealing a piece of paper. It was thin, torn from a book. John hoped like hell it wasn't the Koran, or all hell would break loose for the desecration. The boy spoke, a quick rush of Dari that John had no hope of understanding.

"Watson" was the only word John recognised, but Hendricksen, his section's translator, spoke up: "He says it's for you, sir."

"Here I thought it was for the _other_ Watson," John answered, taking the paper. He unfolded the paper, and his chest went cold.

The paper had a sideways figure-eight drawn in powdery ash or charcoal over the thin, printed text. Beneath it, written in black pen, was a set of numbers: coordinates.

It wasn't possible. _This_ wasn't possible. Or it was a mistake. Because it _was not possible_ that this mark would turn up here and now, in the middle of fucking nowhere, a world away from a year spent almost failing school because of a bright-eyed young man with a penchant for mischief and a silver tongue that kept them from getting arrested on more than one occasion.

He rolled up to his feet, picking up his pack without double-checking the contents. He carried a full emergency medical kit despite the extra weight it added. "Stay here," he told his men as they started to get up. Under their puzzled gazes, he arranged his kit and slung his SA80. "I'll be back in a bit," he lied as he put on his helmet.

In complete disregard of regulations, he left his radio off.

* * *

**December 1995**

"Your turn to build up the fire," James prompted, tipping his head back to look upside-down at the nearby hearth. He considered getting up to fetch more pillows, but he felt too damned good to move.

John groaned but pushed up onto all fours, shivering as cool air gusted under the blankets. "We're going to end up killing each other," he warned, crawling the two feet to the pile of wood they'd brought inside earlier, when the space heater had started sputtering.

"No better way to die," James said contentedly, rolling onto his side to watch. "You're fucking gorgeous. You should stay naked."

"Stop taking the piss," John said with a snort. "As if anyone's going to even notice me with you around?"

"I'm serious. Look at you. If I had that face, I could own half the bloody world."

"I'm ordinary. _You_ could be a damned model," John said, grinning back over his shoulder. Then he turned to inexpertly pile wood on the dying fire. "One look at you, and fathers lock up their daughters."

"All part of my plan. They never think to lock up their sons." James laughed and reached out to run a finger up the sole of John's bare foot. "Your parents didn't suspect. Didn't lock up your sister, either."

"Harry's gay."

"That friend of hers, Clara, isn't. She was giving us the eye," James said thoughtfully. "Think we should invite her to visit us after the holidays?"

"We are _not_ seducing my sister's girlfriend," John said firmly as he dove back under the blankets. His skin was already chilled, making James flinch in momentary surprise.

"You and your bloody morals," James accused, deciding to play chivalrous and help John warm up. He pulled John to his side of the nest of bedding and rolled on top of him again, this time with John lying on his stomach. "What about that bird from your anatomy class? Amy Carruthers?"

"Now _that_ we could do," John said agreeably. "She was chatting me up last class."

"You didn't tell me? I'm jealous," James lied fondly, nudging his legs between John's.

John laughed and flexed his back to press his arse up, making James hiss in pleasure. "Didn't think she was your type."

"If she'll shag us both, why wouldn't she be?" James asked, tracing one finger idly over John's shoulderblade. "We won't be young forever. And I'll probably get thrown out of school soon. It's your good influence that's helped me last this long."

John turned enough to look over his shoulder at James, his expression carefully neutral. "You could actually try _not_ to get in trouble."

"It's in my nature." James sighed and kissed the back of John's neck, trying to recapture the mood. "Besides, no matter where I end up, a part of us will always be together."

"Yeah?"

In answer, James leaned forward enough to take hold of a gnarled twig, burnt at one end, that had rolled to the edge of the hearth. "I need to teach you to build a damned fire," he muttered, pushing the end of the twig into the layer of ash. He slid back down John's body, propping up on his left hand, and put the blackened end of the twig against John's shoulderblade.

"Oi! What —"

"Relax," James said, giving John a poke with the twig. When John settled down, James drew a diagonal line down and to the left, saying, "You're the best friend I've ever had, John."

John's back had gone tense, though he stayed still. "Christ, you sound like my first girlfriend got when she was about to break up with me."

"Well, I'm not." James curved the line up and back around, crossing itself. "No matter what, if you need me, I will _always_ find a way," he said as he curved the line back to the origin, forming a sideways figure-eight.

John's exhale was shaky. He twisted awkwardly as James began retracing the shape, the point of the twig digging against his taut muscles. "Same," he promised quietly. "I mean, me, too."

James fell silent, carefully retracing the infinity symbol on John's skin until he'd raised a red welt dusted with ash. John's breathing had gone ragged, and when James dipped his head to trace one curved line with his tongue, he tasted sweat.

"James," John whispered, arching back against James' mouth.

James threw the twig away and bit hard against the centre of the infinity symbol. "Always," he swore.

* * *

**April 2009**

John's rank allowed him to leave the secured area unchallenged. The boy had already run ahead and disappeared into the rain. John followed suit, calmly taking an indirect route to a nearby bazaar. There, he allowed merchants to cheat him viciously for local souvenirs, including a bulky duffel bag and a full set of male clothing sized too large for his frame. A troublesome merchant tried to get John to trade his military-issued boots for local calf-high boots, but John paid twice the asking price in cash instead, just to cut the haggling short.

In an alley, he stripped his equipment harness of packs and pouches, which he stowed in the duffel bag, along with his helmet. He pulled the loose clothing over his body armour, changed his boots, and rolled up his sleeves. He covered his short hair and shaved face with a keffiyeh. Reluctantly, he stowed the SA80 in the top of the duffel bag, and took some time to position the bag where he could get at the weapon quickly.

He was a dead man. If he didn't get himself shot or captured, he'd end up dishonourably discharged and imprisoned. Misconduct on an operation. Absent without leave. He'd be stripped of his rank, thrown in prison. He'd never practice medicine. If he was lucky, he'd get out of prison by the time he was grey and maybe be able to get a job as a veterinary assistant. Christ, this was bad. This was _impossible_.

But he didn't hesitate. He did his best to disappear into the crowd, depending on quick glimpses of his map to navigate the maze of streets leading west across the river and out of Lashkar Gah.

John walked for two tense hours that left him chilled with sweat and rain. Feeling exposed, he got off the main road as soon as he could and attempted to disappear amid the irrigated fields. He didn't make his way directly to the coordinates; instead, he circled, scouting the area.

His hands itched for the SA80, though he left it in the duffel bag. This was probably a trap — an insane, unlikely trap. Hell, if he was lucky, maybe a sniper would take him out and save the British government the trouble of a court martial.

The coordinates led him nowhere. He surreptitiously checked his GPS to confirm his location, and then took another peek at the paper, verifying the written coordinates. He paced back and forth, stamping his blistered, aching feet in the puddles to feel for anything buried, but there was nothing. Bitterly, he wondered if he'd thrown away his life for nothing.

And then he spotted it — a stack of stones just peeking out of the mud. His heart leaped as he remembered balancing stacks of stones on holiday while distracted by touches that grew more fervent and heated, a game in which his failure was ultimately rewarded in the best way possible.

He knelt down, wary of IEDs, and looked more closely. There were two more stacks nearby — one with three stones, one with just two. They formed a line that extended across several fields in one direction, and pointed towards a nearby farmhouse in the other.

Casually, John knocked down the stacks, though he kept hold of one of the stones, toying with it anxiously. He wiped his wet face, wishing the damned keffiyeh was waterproof, and started casually for the farmhouse without looking directly at it.

He saw no sign of movement. No glint of a sniper's scope. No lights. The house was quiet.

John walked towards the house with the same casual, confident steps that had brought him out of Lashkar Gah. He rested his hand on the duffel bag, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes strained to see in the gloom, and he silently cursed the storm that filled his ears with the drone of falling rain.

At the farmhouse door, he stopped to take the rifle out of the duffle. He thought about IEDs and ambushes and a hundred other ways that death could be waiting for him on the other side of the door, but he'd come too far — sacrificed too much — to turn back now.

"Fuck it all," he muttered, and pushed the door open.

The interior was neat and orderly. John avoided walking on the carpet and stuck to the wood floor instead, painfully aware of the empty spaces around him where the rest of his section should have been. He'd cleared more buildings than he could count, but never on his own, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs, his nerves were strung painfully tight.

Carefully, he nudged open the first door, leading with the SA80, and his finger twitched on the trigger when he saw a shape lying on a narrow bed under the window at the far side of the room. He kept the muzzle trained on the figure as he advanced, wary of the door and the window. The figure on the bed never moved. Over the sound of the rain, John heard laboured breathing, shallow and slow.

Tension crackled up his spine as he leaned closer, ready to leap back and pull the trigger if the figure so much as twitched. Guessing that the person in the bed wasn't conscious, John crossed to the bed with a bit more confidence.

The sun was already going down, throwing the room into darkness, but as soon as John reached the bed, he knew it was _him._

* * *

**April 2009**

A sharp tap on the cheek, no more than a gentle slap, dragged James out of the darkness. For the first time in almost fifteen years, he looked up into deep blue eyes that had, for a brief while, been the centre of his world.

"John," he said, his voice rough and dry. He tried to lift his right hand, but it was trapped against his body.

"Christ, James." John leaned forward, and for a moment, James thought John was about to kiss him. Then John hesitated and instead set a hand on James' forehead. "What the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

"Trying not to die," James said, displeased with how weak and distant his voice was. "Water?"

John immediately provided, offering James a bite-down valve attached to the hydration pack that all soldiers carried. The water was stale and tasted of plastic, not that James was arguing.

"You've been stabbed, though it missed the lung and anything too critical. Nicked your collarbone, which won't be pleasant. Your right arm's broken in two places and you had three dislocated fingers," John said clinically as he took the bite-down valve away.

With the catalogue of injuries, James' memories returned in a rush. His target: Zhukov, whose little post-Soviet heroin empire was under threat from allied operations in Afghanistan. James had escaped, but hadn't completed his mission. He'd have to go back.

"Oi! Stay still," John said at once, pressing James against the bed as he struggled to sit up. "I stitched you up, but you're in no condition to go anywhere."

"You came. I knew you were in the area," James said, reaching up left-handed to clasp John's wrist. "But I need to go."

"Right now, you've got enough morphine in you that you wouldn't make it to the stairs without passing out," John said with that same old stubbornness.

James laughed, closing his eyes for a moment. "You haven't changed."

John let out a huff, his hand gentling on James' shoulder once. "Neither have you, except maybe in the _scale_ of trouble you find."

"I like excitement," James admitted, cautiously allowing himself to relax. The 'safe' part of this safehouse was questionable, but he trusted John. In fact, John Watson might be the only person in this whole fucking country he could trust.

John shifted his hand enough to touch James' neck, two fingers pressing against his pulse point. After a few seconds, he asked gently, "What happened to the Royal Navy, then? You're a bit far from water, in case you didn't notice."

James grinned, looking up at John. "Made Commander. I look bloody amazing in the uniform."

John laughed. "And you're still modest."

"Men like us never change," James agreed. "I do government work now. The work they'd deny anyone does."

"Christ." John blew out a breath and stroked a hand over James' hair. "Well, feel free to visit me in prison. I'm AWOL, you know."

"Don't be an arse. I can make it all go away," James said offhandedly. He stretched subtly, feeling aching muscles and bruises and strains. Nothing was too worrying, except the arm; even the stab wound wasn't a significant impact on his physical condition.

"What are you, God? You and your fucking ego," John teased.

"My department doesn't exist. _I_ don't exist. So while I'm not God, I do work for her." James took a deep breath and tentatively moved his right thumb, the only finger that wasn't actually taped and splinted. "How's your shooting, these days?"

"Oh, lousy. Never get any practice. It's only a bloody war here," John said dryly.

James grinned, remembering the days when John had been the only person on the range to give him any sort of a challenge. That might have changed over the last fifteen years, but James had his doubts. He'd kept a subtle eye on John's military file, which included his marksmanship qualifications. "Perfect. I'll spot for you."

_"What?"_

"I have a job. And since I'm in no shape to complete it, you'll have to help me."

"You're a bloody _assassin?_" John asked disbelievingly.

James shrugged, feeling distant pain cut through the morphine from the abused right side of his body. "I have diverse talents," he said tensely, remembering John's deep-set belief in right and wrong. The narcotic had loosened James' tongue. Had he admitted too much to his old friend?

"Right. Lovely," John muttered. Then he shook his head and met James' eyes. "Fine."

"Really?" The question slipped out before James could stop himself, but something about John Watson had always disarmed him.

"Really. _If,_" John emphasised, "you do exactly as I say."

"Oh? Like _that,_ are we now?"

John grinned. "In this particular context, I mean as your doctor. Anything else, we can discuss once you're healed up."

"Promise?"

"Absolutely."


End file.
